Casa Caliente: Interlude
by Bicoastal
Summary: Grissom and Sara check out the future through the ants.


Casa Caliente: (The interlude.)

Grissom looked up from his ant farm and wiped a smudge off the glass. Something caught his attention just inside the pane and he looked again, to be sure.

"Sara?"

She showed up at the garage doorway a moment later, worried by the tone of his voice.

"What?"

"The Writer."

"The Writer?"

"She's back," he whispered, "Watching us." He pointed a thumb at the glass pane and gave a little worried tip of his head. Sara squinted at the ant farm.

"I thought you sent her off to go re-read that one where we were in Tahoe—"Sara murmured. Grissom sighed.

"She keeps coming back all fired up about passion every time she does! Not that I mind, but we've worn out two rocking chairs and one box spring since the last time."

Sara gave a dreamy smile. "We were pretty hot in that story, weren't we?"

Grissom cleared his throat, but his blush was very telling.

In the farm, the ants were marching around holding teeny signs filled with subliminal images. Sara picked up a magnifying glass and checked out one of them: Figaro sniffing fellow kitten.

"She's thinking about giving us another cat—"Sara dutifully reported. Grissom nodded, moving to the other side of the huge glass window and looking in.

"Check out the second one back—"he suggested. Sara did: a minuscule tiny image of Grissom in a lion plushie costume made her break into husky giggles.

"You look cute, but if that's for the erotica part, I don't think I could get through it without laughing. It would be like making whoopee with the Cowardly Lion."

Through the big glass panel, Grissom shot her a look so dry it practically spat sand; she giggled again.

"Listen Achushla, I love our amazing libidos, our orgasmically balanced and synchronized sex—hell, the forays into kinkville are pretty damn fun too—but I am NOT going to make love to you in a plushie suit, no way no how," he rumbled. "It's like that flavored condom thing—I have to take a stand once in a while."

Sara gave a slightly regretful shrug. "Maybe I could wear it—you think the readers would buy that scenario?"

Grissom thought it over, rising up and planting an elbow on the top of the ant farm as he considered the matter.

"If it was more like that outfit Hallie Berry was almost wearing in Cat Woman—"he suggested, eyes twinkling. Sara made a moue of annoyance.

"Oh, the Lady Heather casual look—"she countered. Grissom bit back a chuckle.

"No Lady Heather in THIS story. Remember the last time the Writer tried?" Sara blinked rapidly, then brushed a loose curl back from her face and grinned.

"Oh yeah—she paired her off with Brass and we haven't seen them since, except for that interdepartmental memo requesting more honey and another pair of handcuffs."

Grissom managed to look disapproving and intrigued at the same time. "WE'RE supposed to set the standard for kink here—what else do the ants say?"

Sara handed him the magnifying glass and winked.

"At least we got that pregnancy one squished. I kind of like having veto power right on the tip of my finger. Bad thought? Dead ant, Splat—"

Grissom held the glass up and muttered quickly, "More Truman, something with your mom and my mom, a case file involving a strip club, and ooh, the Bug Bowl! Now THAT I approve of. Nothing like Indiana in April, with fireflies and the world's largest collection of Lunar moths, Sara. And the cricket spitting contest. Classic entertainment."

"Cricket spitting? Grissom, you are NOT getting a cricket in my mouth! Neither is the writer!" she protested. He peered up at her through the magnifying glass, which distorted his blue eyes into cerulean quarters.

"It's freeze-dried," he added hopefully. She stuck her tongue out at him.

"No. I'll watch you spit if she insists, but I'm drawing the line at sticking a bug in my face. I'll do a lot of things for love here, but not this!"

Grissom mumbled something she didn't quite hear, but caught the tone of. She came around the ant farm and glared at him. "What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"You did too!"

"Fine. I just commented that it's just as well because I could out spit you anyway. My personal best is nine feet four inches."

Sara stared at him incredulously.

"Jeez, you're as bad as SHE is. Whatever happened to the angst? The slow torturous drama of the week-to-week anticipation of Geek Love that this whole series was founded on? The episodes when readers anguished over whether we'd even be in the same room, let alone work a case together or have little moments of connection?"

Grissom smiled knowingly.

"Ah, but that was before the Writer, and the magnificent Pantheon of Others Who Came Before Her, lighting the way to where we are now, Sara. She and her Sisterhood have bitchslapped TPTB, and created many an alternative universe where that which was on the wrong foot for so many seasons is back on the path of TGL, or True Geek Love."

Sara arched her elegant eyebrow at him.

"Have you been breathing in those cyanocrylate fumes again, Grissom? Leaning a little too close to the fingerprint vapors?"

"Noooo—"he managed to sound both guilty and slightly offended at this accusation. Sara threw her hands up in the air and sighed.

"I give up—let's just let her surprise us for a while and leave the Oracle ants alone. I can think of a few other things to do besides stand out here in the garage."

Grissom set the magnifying glass down and looked through his lashes at her, his smile mild, but his eyes full of sweet smut.

"I've got a rocking chair, and I'm not afraid to use it—"he remarked.

Sara laughed. "Bring it on . . . ever been handcuffed naked to a piece of mobile furniture before?"

"Not yet . . ."

They slipped out of the garage, arms around each other, leaving behind dust motes, dry stillness and a slow, tiny parade of life unquenchable.

FIN


End file.
